Whore
by if.the.plane.goes.down
Summary: She needs love too much, that's whats the matter. Her heart is a whore.


He was not an incense god. He didn't smoke the stuff or even light the stuff up. She could tell by the way his skin didn't reek of wasted matches, and the crevices of his body didn't seem fit for gasoline.

She would have put a paper seal over his face if she had been desperate. Because it was all wrong. The angles were too acute, the bones too thin, the lips too fleshy and the eyes were the worst. He was witch eyed, one iris red the other unremarkable. And looking into his face head on now, was like looking at two sides of the same disfigured coin. The chin was horrible, too. There was no big bushel of black bear-hair there. Nothing to hold on to. He was porcelain skinned and not the warm toasted brown she remembered and longed for.

But it was the day of The Funeral, as things that fall apart often are. Afterwards she could say she'd been drunk. And he could , too. When she'd spied him there, over the rows of heads bowed over the charred, abandoned hitai-ate, he'd had little drops of moisture clinging to his lashes. He'd used the drunk excuse then, too.

That was then. And this was now lying in the dead "their's" bed. Because the "their" that was _was_ dead, now. It was now him and her, and only because the house was made for two, and she didn't want to sleep with one side of the bed always made up now. Cold, hard, and heartless.

He surprisingly had a heart, and it was throbbing under the sheets in sunlight outlined. So she'd taken it between her thighs and offered him the pieces of her raggedy puzzle to hold in his mouth. At least holding something with his teeth would keep him smiling. It was The Funeral, they were all supposed to be having a great time. Passed on to a better place and all.

And she didn't even forget and whisper the wrong name into the pillow lace. (Because she was trying so hard to forget that name, to quit that name cold turkey). And he didn't make her cry. He was tender. One might have called it all beautiful.

There was only a shade of love to it, but she needed it just the same. Of course she tried and convinced herself that if only just for those moments she loved him very much, and that the longing she saw in his eyes was more than just fuel to lick her fire. It was easier in the dark when they didn't _have_ to look each other in the eye, or say more than was necessary, or worry about snapped buttons or bra straps and how do I make you feel? When it was only necessary to keep loving, and wandering higher, putting this there and that here. This is the way we fall, ahhh mourn. Because everybody's in a better place.

No, he was not her brown skinned incense man. False idol of cigarettes and bear fur hair, with hands that were always clean, but rough with fresh calluses on the palms for peeling away. It was regeneration until the last breath was drawn, and the last artery fluttered closed and the only things left of him intact when they lowered him down in the coffin were the charred forehead protector and those hands. Clean and pleading to her like fat brown oranges waiting to be peeled.

Witch eyes. He had hands soft and baby pink, fingertips smeared in drying paint, nails hiding dried blood in their coral beds. And his flesh smelled like strong sake even when he took off all of his clothes and leaned in to bewitch her with those eyes. She kept her eyes closed and stayed close, spooned almost inside his body afterwards with his arms around her middle. She allowed herself to cry but not to remember, and told him she loved them both and let him touch her all the same.

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**Here it is, ladies and gents. Felt the need for some fluffy KakaKure angst. Like? No? I just feel drawn to this couple continuously though I don't know why. I've always considered myself a KakaAnko girl until recently. Next thing you know I'll be writing (mercy forbid) NaruHina. NOOOOOOO! But anyway if you didn't get the story it was supposed to be a little dark piece revolving around Kurenai's general thoughts after and during sleeping with Kakashi on the day of Asuma's funeral. Yes, Asuma is her brown skinned incense man. I myself think Kakashi is just perfectly complexly flawless. Yes, I just made up the word complexly. This is my first time ever writing him in a negative-ish (also a new word) light. Like with the witch eyes. Review plz. Man, I talk a lot.**


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